


Honey and Olive Oil

by basketofnovas (slashmarks)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge, Anal Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 23:49:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3466613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashmarks/pseuds/basketofnovas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sadık invites Herakles for dinner. Just dinner. He's definitely not moping over him or anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey and Olive Oil

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge, Day One (Anal Sex), although I am not doing it all for Turkey/Greece because I fail at writing one pairing for that long.
> 
> Warning: one vague reference to past rape.

They're having a civil conversation and everything. Sadık has a strange feeling, like he might hear his alarm going off at any moment and have to shake off the knowledge that this was all a dream while getting ready for work. Or, more likely, like they're going to start screaming at each other, cats or Christianity or Cyprus will come up and at that point it doesn't even matter who starts the argument because it's inevitable--

But they finish the kıyma and the yoghurt without a hostile word said. Sadık gets up to get the baklava from the kitchen, and when he comes back with the plates Herakles is still sitting there, leaning back and examining the framed picture of Istanbul's skyline hanging behind him on the wall.

Fuck. Sadık should have moved that if he wanted them to talk instead of fighting, he thought seating them so Herakles wasn't looking at it would be good enough.

“This is nice,” Herakles says, and Sadık's heart jumps like he's a fucking school girl. He pushes it down, reminds himself that he used to _own_ Herakles, and then remembers that that thought is how their fights usually start.

“Thanks,” he says finally. “It was a gift from the photographer, girl's a student in Istanbul. She did an internship at work. Here's your plate.”

“Blue Mosque reminds me of the Hagia Sophia,” Herakles adds. “What with what you did to it, and all.”

Probably the saving grace of the evening is that Sadık's mouth is full of pastry and honey when Herakles says it. He has to take a moment to chew and swallow before he can answer, and maybe the honey sweetens his mood, or maybe the fact that he's spent the last hour thinking  _Sadık don't screw this up_ , or maybe Allah's finally rewarded his prayers for self control.

“Yeah,” he says, once his mouth is clear. “Sorry 'bout that. You know it's a museum now, though, not a mosque anymore.” Herakles is looking at him like he's speaking – probably Arabic, he understands Turkish fine. Sadık checks over what he just said and makes sure he hasn't slid languages, and then continues “We should go sometime, yeah?”

“What.”

“I mean, they restored a bunch of your stuff in it, and you never really saw it under me, and who knows how much longer you'll be able to see them both together. It'd be – cool.” Sadık likes showing people his city, and maybe the Hagia Sophia's museum, Christianity and Islam, Greek and Turkish furnishings displayed together would help Herakles see, it doesn't have to be the way it used to be.

Some day, he wants to walk Herakles through Istanbul and show him all the ways it's changed and see Herakles smile instead of scream at him over the wars that brought it to him. It's a ridiculous fantasy, but so is everything else he wants from Herakles, and he knows it.

“Sadık,” Herakles says, cutting him off, “Did you just apologize?”

He reconsiders what he just said and seriously considers denying it, but – self control. He takes another bite of the pastry to give the urge time to pass.

“Sadık,” Herakles repeats.

“Yeah. So what?” Sadık grins at him insolently.

“So you've never done that before, and I'm wondering what you want.” Herakles folds his hands and rests his chin on them, staring at him.

Sadık can only meet his gaze for a minute before looking away, which he hates. “Can't you just enjoy the moment? I'll do it again if you like,” he offers, impulsive. “I'm sorry about beating the shit out of you and trying to kill your people and trying to get them all to become Muslim. And I'm not sorry about taking Constantinople, but I _am_ sorry about sacking it and killing a bunch of people who weren't soldiers doing it.” Once he starts it's like he can't stop, words spilling up and out of his throat.

“You know you're not getting Cyprus back, right?” Herakles appears perturbed.

“Cyprus is--” he cuts himself off. “Not the subject of this conversation, _c'mon_ Herakles, are you going to accept it?”

“I don't know. The EU,” he says. “You're about to make another bid for EU membership, and you're trying to show me you have control of your temper now. Or your boss ordered you to apologize, or – or something.”

“My boss did not order me to apologize to you for sacking Constantinople.” Sadık actually rolls his eyes at that idea.

“Then what do you _want_?” Herakles isn't standing yet, but his voice is rising perilously close to a shout, and isn't it funny that Sadık has managed to cause the argument he was trying to avoid just _by_ trying to avoid it instead of taking the bait about the Hagia Sophia. If he wants to salvage the situation he'd better think of something fast, but he can't, pacifying Greece once he's worked up has _never_ been one of his talents. (Not that he usually cared before. He at least knows enough not to use a sword in the process if he's trying.)

“Hey,” he says helplessly. “I'm just – enjoying having a civil conversation, y'know? I don't _want_ to keep fighting with you, Herakles.”

He gets another suspicious look for his troubles, but when Herakles speaks again, it's no longer nearing a shout. “You always want something.”

Sadık is starting to lose patience. He's _trying_ to be nice here. “Fine,” he snaps irritably. “I want something, but it's not Cyprus or the EU or – or for you to apologize for your  _complete bullshit_ in the Aegean Sea.”

“Then what is it?” Greece is eerily calm again, but Sadık can see the way his arms have tensed up. He's either looking for a fight or expecting Sadık to start one.

“You,” Sadık snaps furiously, “I invited you here for dinner and made you food because I _want_ you. If it was politics I'd have scheduled a fucking meeting.” Or just barged into his office and refused to leave until Herakles talked to him or had him thrown out by security, but he isn't going to bring that up right now.

“You... want me,” Herakles says.

“That's what I just said.” He stabs at the pastry with his half forgotten fork, trying to appear very intent on it so he doesn't have to look at the other man.

He is expecting Herakles to get up and storm out, at best, and at worst to punch him, no, at worst for this to come up at the next meeting in front of both of their bosses, or... He doesn't know. It's true, he invited Herakles here to tell him this, to proposition him, but he had a plan for how to do it and it didn't involve using it as the punchline of an argument.

Herakles takes a breath that's so loud he can hear it plainly, and says, “You don't get to top.”

“I – _what_?”

“I said, you don't get to top. I don't want the memories, and if you're not being an asshole, you don't, either. If this is some kind of – reliving your glory days thing, wanting to own me again, you should go hide in the kitchen until I get out the door or I'm going to punch you.”

“That's not a problem,” Sadık says, resisting the urge to laugh from surprise or something that might be giddiness. Then another thought occurs to him, and he raises his head, refusing to flinch from what he might see in Herakles' eyes – it would be worse than never touching him again, to have Herakles fuck him out of _pity_ , or some desire to encourage him to act _civilized_ , like Christian Nations hadn't done just as much pillaging and murdering of his people before they all suddenly decided that wasn't how things were done anymore.

But no, what's on Herakles' face is more like curiosity, behind the fading traces of surprise. He remembers that look, remembers Herakles going through his sultan's libraries, how much he'd loved the history section. He's not really all that sure why it's coming into play now, but he's not going to ask and push his luck.

“So, uh,” he says, getting up. “Does that mean you're okay with...?”

“I take it you're done with the baklava,” Herakles says. He stands as well, slower, and stretches. His T shirt rides up a little bit, showing an inch of the skin of his stomach, and Sadık licks his suddenly dry lips.

“Yeah, yeah, I think so.” Sadık doesn't approach him. He remembers when he first tried to pet one of Herakles' cats and the damn thing shied away at the last minute and slashed his hand open, and thinks this might be like that.

Herakles comes to him, though. His hand on Sadık's arm is light at first, almost shy, but his kiss isn't.

Sadık actually closes his eyes, all the while making a mental note to completely deny this later if it comes up. He knows, intellectually, that Herakles has slept with practically everyone (well, everyone except him and the people who aren't interested in men) and that means he must be experienced now, and experienced means good, but he hadn't really connected that to 'great at kissing.' Herakles in his mind is still captured Byzantium, naïve of practically everything besides warfare, economics and Orthodox Christianity.

And that's the kind of thought he's not supposed to be having right now, he reminds himself. Sadık opens his eyes and slides his arm around Herakles's back and kisses back, hard, resisting the urge to bite along with all the other urges he's put aside. He wants to be allowed to touch Herakles again. Everything else about how he wants to do it can wait for another time, because if this doesn't go well he seriously doubts he'll ever get a second chance.

“Lube,” Herakles says, pulling back.

Sadık has to think a second. “Olive oil in the kitchen?” he offers, pulling out of Herakles' arms completely and turning to go look for it.

“Seriously? I guess this is a sin for you,” Herakles says extremely dubiously. “Like you ever cared about that before.”

“Oh, yeah, because the Greek Orthodox are so much happier about sodomy,” Sadık says sarcastically. The olive oil is right near the front of the cupboard, he uses it all the time. For cooking, that is. He splashes some of it into a cup so they don't make the bottle unusable. “I don't have condoms, either.” It has been more time than he'd care to admit since he had sex. Too much work lately, no free time to go looking, definitely nothing else.

“No problem,” Herakles says. His voice comes from much closer than before, right behind Sadık, and when he turns Herakles is abruptly pushing him up against the wall to the side of the cupboard, kissing him again, harder and more urgent than before.

Sadık groans into his mouth and slides his hands onto Herakles' arms, just below the ends of his shirt sleeves. He grips the other man's biceps, luxuriating just in being allowed to touch him again, in the feeling of Herakles's lips sliding down his jawline. He doesn't need to be in control this time, he tells himself, shivering. He just needs it to not be the last.

“Your stubble scratches,” Herakles mutters. He's holding Sadık's hips in his hands. It's a little strange; his hold is loose, light. He takes a hand off to stroke Sadık's side. Neither of them is gripping hard enough to bruise, there hasn't even been any biting yet.

Not at all how Sadık expected this to go, when he was trying to be realistic.

Herakles kisses like he could take all day at it, like he's not at all concerned about getting to anything else. The oil's right next to them in the counter, just inside Sadık's field of vision, and it's like being taunted. He groans and lets go of Herakles' arm to put a hand up his shirt, and when there's no protest, starts pushing it up.

Herakles breaks off from him, laughing. “You still have no patience,” he says, but he's letting Sadık get the shirt up and over his head.

“I do,” Sadık says, starting on the buttons of his jeans. “Never put you up against the wall at a meting, did I?”

“If you did, I'd have put a knife in your eye,” Herakles says flatly.

“You have no idea how hot that is.” He pauses to look Herakles over in the middle of pushing his jeans down off his hips, and the image actually fucking takes his breath away, which is so sentimental he's never going to repeat it out loud – Herakles, shirtless and with his pants low on his hips, half glaring at him, but his face still flushed with arousal. It's messed up, but Sadık kind of has a thing for being hated.

“You're such an asshole,” Herakles says, shaking his head. “I have no idea why I'm sleeping with you.”

Neither do I, Sadık thinks, but he only says “Yeah, yeah, hurry up.” He pushes the jeans down and Herakles steps out of them while Sadık starts on the buttons of his own shirt.

Herakles grabs his hands, and surprised, Sadık lets him draw them up and start on the shirt himself. “My turn,” he says with a small smile, kissing him again.

Sadık feels kind of stupid standing there with his hands up, so he buries them in Herakles' hair instead, running his fingers through the curls and trying not to snag them. His hair is thick and smells like olive oil, or possibly Sadık is losing his mind.

Herakles pulls off Sadık's shirt and jeans and underwear one at a time, and then his hands go up to Sadık's face, which he's perfectly happy about until he realizes specifically where they're aiming.

He turns his face away. “No.”

“No?” Herakles asks.

“Not the mask.” His voice is wavering. He coughs and says, more firmly “Everything else, fine, but the mask stays on.”

"Weirdo,” Herakles says, but he's almost affectionate. He doesn't argue, just leans in and presses a kiss to the edge of the mask. Sadık thinks maybe he'll tell him about why he's always covered his face one day, but not today.

There's only a little bit of fumbling after that, moving the oil to where Herakles can reach it and trying to get legs apart and hips shifted into position, and then Herakles has his fingers up Sadık and he's pushing his head back, staring at the ceiling and making some extremely undignified noises which he does not care about at all as long as Herakles keeps touching him, right there okay maybe a little to the left actually.

He voices that thought and gets satisfyingly immediate compliance. At that point he glances down and sees Herakles watching him with a thoughtful look and feels himself flush bright red. Damn, he misses when he could wear a veil over his face and not show anything at all.

“You actually like this, don't you?” Herakles says, twitching his fingers in a way that makes Sadık's hips roll.

“What,” he groans, “You thought I was doing this for, I don't know, political expediency? If I was fucking you for EU membership I'd have made sure you agreed in the – ah – beginning.”

“I thought you might have agreed to bottoming so I'd fuck you at all.” Herakles's lips are ghosting along his neck, and Sadık twitches and twists his neck up to give him better access. He feels teeth on his neck and forgets to breathe for a moment. They release and Herakles goes on, “But you really like being fucked, don't you?” He sounds – curious, again, exploratory, verging on pleased, and Sadık feels his cock twitch against Herakles's stomach at that thought.

“Yeah,” he groans, “I do, so _hurry up and fuck me_.”

The sudden absence of Herakles's fingers make him feel weirdly loose and honestly kind of uncomfortable because Sadık might like being fucked but he hates feeling just-fucked, but then they're replaced with his cock and he's got other things to think about.

Herakles buries himself in Sadık, his face pressed into his shoulder – Sadık's still taller than him, hah. Sadık grips at his hair and tries not to pull, and mostly concentrates on making encouraging noises when Herakles does something particularly nice with his cock or roaming hands.

It's all very nice and kind of awkward, because Sadık might like being fucked, but he doesn't generlaly like being passive. Just this time, he tells himself, rolling his hips and grabbing at the back of Herakles' neck, let him pick this time and maybe someday soon you can fuck him into your sheets, and the mental image of holding down his wrists and biting at his shoulder, combined with the feeling of Herakles burying himself balls deep inside him, is what sends him over the edge.

It's embarrassingly fast. Sadık is not a horny adolescent anymore, and he should be able to last longer than this. Herakles starts to slow, but he manages to grab at his hair and make encouraging noises through the heavy post-orgasm feeling in his limbs. Being fucked when he's not actively aroused is a strange feeling, kind of uncomfortable and kind of pleasant, and he doesn't have a lot of time to consider how he feels about it because then Herakles is coming too.

Hah. He's vindicated; he's not the only one getting off in less than ten minutes like an adolescent.

They sort of stumble to the couch nearby after that, and Sadık buries himself in a pleasant haze od drowsiness and the smell of Herakles' skin (definitely olive oil, has he been _bathing_ in the stuff or something?) for a while, until he feels the other man trying to disentangle himself.

“Mm?” He opens his eyes and reluctantly gets up. Their clothes are still in the kitchen. Fuck.

“That was nice.” Herakles is smiling at him, and not looking guarded at all, which is a first and decidedly nice. Sadık congratulates himself mentally, and then does it again for getting him into bed. “Thanks.”

“Uh, you're welcome?” He starts into the kitchen to get their clothes, then changes his mind and decides to make Herakles come in to get his own. It means he's mostly dressed and gets to watch him wander in naked, which is a nice plus in that column.

“Oh, I mean to ask,” Herakles says, glancing at the dishes while he washes his hands. “When did you learn to cook?”

“Dissolution of the empire.” Sadık shrugs. “I had to get used to living by myself eventually. I mean, I could have hired someone to do it, but I like cooking fine. You liked it?”

“Sure, it was good.” Herakles smiles again, and Sadık privately vows to show up at his doorstep with baklava someday soon. Either he'll get another smile, or Herakles will be furious, and Sadık can be put upon and complain that he was just trying to bring him a gift.

“Do this again sometime?” he asks, once Herakles' clothing is mostly back in order.

“Maybe, I guess.” Herakles waves and ambles to the door.

Well. It's better than a no. He'll work on it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kıyma is a kind of dolma (leaf wrapped dish common in the eastern Mediterranean) filled with ground meat and served with yoghurt.
> 
> The Hagia Sophia was an Orthodox Cathedral, which was turned into a mosque after the Ottomans took Constantinople, and then into a museum by the Republic of Turkey.
> 
> Turkey has objected very strongly to Greek activity in the Aegean Sea.
> 
> Everyone reading this pairing probably knows what's up with Cyprus.


End file.
